Act I (2)

Chaper 15: Practice Practical

The café is still dark when Joon-woo crouches beneath the espresso machine, lamp clamped between his teeth. Steam sighs as he tightens the new gasket; a ribbon of vapor coils upward then vanishes in the chill air.

"Good as factory," he murmurs.

I flex my fingers while Ha-eun counts my pulse. Seventy-nine. Glide, she reminds me. I thank Joon-woo, but the gratitude comes out thin—paper crinkling over a drum. Two days to the real exam, nine to the auditors, and I have slept four broken hours. The metal throat of the steam-wand glints like a stopwatch hand.

Trainer Park Seong-il unfolds a tablet the size of a cutting board and taps the START screen.

"Fifteen minutes, full rubric," he says. "Dial-in, four drinks, station reset. Overtime is minus one point per second after fifteen-oh-oh. Fail line: seventy."

Min-ji balances a tripod beside him and angles its LED display toward me—bright red digits sitting at 00:00.

"Smile, Professor Foam," she whispers, but her grin quivers with the LED glare.

I inhale Kang's lingering mugwort scent from yesterday's celebration, touch my sternum—not yet—and roll my shoulders.

00:01. Portafilter in, first shot running. The stream blondes at eighteen seconds. I curse under my breath, yank the handle, adjust grind.

Don't chase, Ha-eun murmurs, tone low and metronomic. Stone in river, let water come to you.

00:46. Second shot lands caramel-thick. Acceptable.

01:10. Tamp, purge, lock, lift milk pitcher. Wand sings. Sweet-grass scent blends with cedar from Joon-woo's earlier repairs.

Steam tip slips too deep. Milk leaps to 72 °C—eight degrees over target. My hand jerks; hiss umbrellas across the counter.

Timer flashes 03:12.

I two-tap out of reflex, draw breath in a square—four beats in, four hold, four out, four hold—cool pitcher, start again.

Glide.

I pour a rosetta safe if uninspired. Two drinks remain: cappuccino and signature "Green-Light Tonic."

Dial-back is sluggish; burr collar sticks from residual grinds. Seconds leak like bad plumbing.

Timer: 07:45.

Min-ji's voice—"Halfway, you got this!"—ricochets off the quiet glass. Encouraging, but volume stabs.

I line up tonic glass, but forget to flush the grouphead. Espresso spits, stained water beading on lip of cup.

Wipe, flush, Ha-eun warns.

I skip it. Hygiene deduction be damned—clock is the larger monster.

Timer: 13:50.

I tamp final puck, wrists trembling. Milk microfoam is perfect this time, swan wings floating as if they remember Chapter Twelve's triumph. I polish the station—rag swipe, knock box empty—slam portafilter out.

15:38. The LED beeps a drawn-out funeral tone. Park's tablet chirps in echo: –38 seconds overtime, –15 points.

The room shrinks to the blue rectangle of the tablet screen. Failing score—sixty-eight.

Stomach lurch, but no vertigo. I wait for shame to roar; instead, a quiet, observable absence. Data, not damnation.

Park's assessment spares no edge. "Flavor excellent, art exam-ready. But you bled forty-five seconds on your first grind adjustment, then forty on sanitation shortcuts. At certification, the clock is a judge. Learn to dance with it."

He suggests interval drills—ten-minute service bursts followed by two-minute resets. He will return tomorrow evening.

Min-ji chews her lip. "I shouldn't have set the timer so huge. Looked like a bomb."

"It is a bomb," I reply, forcing a laugh. "We just need to teach it our song."

Her shoulders unclench.

I tap sternum twice—tap-tap-pace. Breath slow. Failure is a parameter, not a prophecy.

Station glistens with sanitizer. I jot a new wheel in the margin of my Study-Journal: concentric rings labeled Shot 0:30 / Milk 1:15 / Sign-Drink 3:40 / Clean 2:00. A clock turned into a flower.

First fix minutes, then days, Ha-eun hums. I nod, feeling whir instead of dread.

Joon-woo reappears, wiping paint flecks off his forearm. "Steam pressure holding," he says. His eyes flick to the red LED, now blank. He offers a subtle thumbs-up—Not for the score, but for the

Phone vibrates against the tamper. Message preview from Ji-sun:

Auditors have pulled last year's bank statements. Call me today—urgent.

Timer may have stopped, but another one starts ticking louder in my head.

I draw the breath square once more, close the journal, and reach for my apron.

There are minutes to tame, and then whole days. Both begin with the next inhale.

Chapter 16: River Lanterns

The river takes on the color of old pewter as we step onto the embankment. Kang spreads her survey map across a portable work-light, its cone of glare turning the paper into a glowing island amid the blue dusk. Beside her, three sample lanterns sway from a bamboo rack—paper globes the size of melons, already pulsing amber in the wind. The light paints wet freckles on the stones, like sparks trying to nest.

My stopwatch rests in my palm, the screen dark, a sullen moon I'm afraid to wake. Yesterday's overtime buzzer still rings behind my ribs. I close my fingers around the device until the metal edge bites.

Breathe with the water, Ha-eun murmurs, voice as low as the current. Let the seconds leave on the tide.

Kang taps the map. "Foot traffic enters here, flows south, loops back before the pier. Lanterns must pull eyes that direction. Booth aisles stay straight— efficiency."

Min-ji pops the phone gimbal into place and starts livestreaming. "Welcome, river crew! Vote: spiral or straight line? Emojis decide."

I stare past the camera at the abandoned ferry pier jutting blackly into the Han. The surface ripples outward from its pylons, widening circles inside circles.

A shape begins to assemble in my head—amber rings unfurling from the pier like a stone's echo on water. Without thinking, I squat and draw with my fingertip in the silt: concentric circles hugging the shoreline, an inner ring broad enough for dancers, an outer for booths. Between them, lanterns like tiny suns.

"See the circle instead," Ha-eun repeats, pleased.

Kang peers over my shoulder. "A bull's-eye?"

"More a mandala," I reply, brushing grit off my knees. "Crowds enter anywhere and keep rotating. No dead ends, no stalls left lonely." I flip the stopwatch, illustrate by spinning it. "Flow, not queue."

Min-ji's phone explodes with heart emojis. "Chat loves it! Ninety-three percent say spiral of doom—Wait, spiral of bloom."

Before Kang can object, Joon-woo emerges from the shadows, a bundle of bamboo stakes on one shoulder. Green paint dusts his sleeves. Without a word he plants the first stake where my fingertip ended, ties twine to it, paces out five meters, and sets the next. A glowing point plotted in darkness.

The others follow his silent coordinates. Soon we've laced the bank with string: three perfect circles stitched to the earth. Joon-woo hooks a lantern on each cardinal point, LED hearts blinking alive. Their reflections tremble on the river—rippling halos that feel larger than the mistakes ticking inside me.

Kang exhales a gusty laugh. "If it keeps people moving and the safety inspector happy, I'm sold. But stalls? We lose row length."

I flip open my notebook—no columns, only the petal-wheel Kang has learned to trust. A quick pencil stroke divides booth rent into slimmer wedges, crowd-flow arrowed upward. "Eighteen percent more eyes per vendor, fewer bottlenecks. Net gain."

Kang studies the wheel, then nods. "Mandala it is."

Min-ji pirouettes between stakes, filming lanterns overhead. "Okay, scavenger-hunt idea! QR codes under every lantern—scan, get a folklore clue, complete the circle, win mask-dance tickets. Engagement plus education." She winks at the phone lens. "Myth wheel meets marketing."

A grin sneaks onto my face. "And the codes link to the blog Ha-eun corrected yesterday—"

—where fox tails are finally counted right, she teases.

Joon-woo tests a lantern farther from shore, gauging wind. The glow softens his profile; paint flecks catch the light like sea salt. He meets my eyes long enough to nod, as though to say the circles will hold.

We walk the outer ring together, checking stake tension. With every measured step I inhale on one, exhale on two, matching heartbeat to lantern rhythm. The stopwatch stays silent in my pocket.

When we finish the loop dusk has surrendered to true night. Kang flips the master switch: all eighty-four globes blaze at once, transforming the river into a spinning galaxy. Gasps rise from volunteers and a ragged cheer from Min-ji's online audience. In the lantern-light the pier no longer looks like an abandoned limb but a compass needle, pointing into possibility.

I breathe the scene in, let the rings replace yesterday's red countdown digits. The exam clock remains, but now it is a circle I can walk, not a cliff I must sprint across.

We're rolling cords when my phone vibrates. The name OH, SEONG-GU glows beneath the lantern watermark from the permit photo.

Need updated vendor roster by 08:00 for audit prep.

A fresh ring tightens around my chest—but it is just one circle among many. I double-tap my sternum; the motion is small, private. Minutes, then days, Ha-eun reminds me.

"Everything okay?" Min-ji asks, lowering the gimbal.

"Just paperwork," I say, and slip the phone away. "We'll handle it before dawn."

Lanterns sway overhead, shedding petals of gold onto the river that will carry them east toward Seoul—and whatever waits after the exam. For tonight, the lights spin slowly, perfectly, as though the water itself is breathing.

Chapter 17: Crane in Reflection

The café is a dim aquarium at 03:45, lit only by the bluish glow of my laptop and the ember-pulse of the heater in the corner. Steam from the kettle hangs like ghosts above the counter, then vanishes in the chill that even paraffin can't fully chase away. I roll my aching shoulders, flex the scarred ankle, and copy the final vendor name into the spreadsheet—thirty-six booths, arranged in those lantern circles we staked beside the river.

Click. Cell turns sage-green, the color I chose for "food artisans." One ring complete.

Almost there, Ha-eun murmurs, her voice a feather brushing the inside of my skull. Lift on the next breath, and the numbers will rise with you.

I inhale for four counts, taste paper dust and over-steeped oolong. Exhale. My vision steadies on the concentric pie chart I've sketched in the margin: crimson for performance stage, amber for mask-dance path, silver for QR folklore hunt. Each slice curves outward, no hard edges—exact opposite of the ledgers that once caged me.

Outside, something shifts. A streetlamp clicks off; the security scaffold across the road catches the new angle of light and throws a shape across the front window—long legs, bent neck, wings poised. A crane, so perfectly framed I forget to breathe. The silhouette overlays the display shelf where Joon-woo's steel crane mug stands guard, merging steel and shadow into a single bird ready to launch.

For a heartbeat I'm back on Mapo Bridge, staring into black water. But the bird's outline is facing upward, not down. Up-draft, not undertow.

Wing beats require up-draft, Ha-eun whispers.

I lift two fingers, tap twice against my sternum, then let the hand rise, palm open to the ceiling—new gesture, half salute, half release.

"Numbers can lift," I tell the quiet room, surprised the words come out steady.

The door slams and Min-ji barrels in, neon yogurt drink in one hand, phone in the other. "I brought sugar!" she stage-whispers, then spots the shadow. "Holy algorithm, that's brand gold." A flash— her camera captures the crane before the lamp flickers again and the image dissolves.

She races behind the counter, peering over my shoulder at the spreadsheet. "Roster done? Because Kang unnie will turn us into rice-flour ghosts if we miss eight a.m."

"Five names left," I sigh. "Help me sort booth numbers?"

Together we drag columns into their circles. Min-ji hums a trot hook under her breath; Ha-eun taps the tempo with soft syllables: one-two, lift-land. At 04:27, the final cell slides home.

Subject line: Vendor Wheel, Final Lift.

I cc Madam Kang, Mr Oh, and hit send. Relief expands in my chest like warm milk foam—until Outlook pings back with that too-cheerful "Message Sent," reminding me the audit beast is merely sleeping.

"Shadow-crane still counts as omen," Min-ji says, already filtering the photo. "Hashtag 'riseandgrind'?"

"Maybe after the exam," I tell her, and she nods, for once respecting silence. She leaves yogurt, scampers upstairs to code QR links.

I need air.

The rooftop smells of wet cedar and dawn. Rows of booth panels lean like mint-green dominoes, a few still glistening where Joon-woo's brush passed an hour ago. He stands at the edge, thermos in gloved hands, sawdust in his hair—mountain stillness wrapped in work clothes.

"I thought you'd be sleeping," I say, voice rasping from too much midnight tea.

"Wanted the sealant dry before sunrise." He offers the thermos. "Ginger."

The liquid is sharp and sweet, heat spiraling down to unfurl my spine. Over the river, the eastern sky peels open—indigo to bruised violet to tender peach. On that band of color several real cranes arc north, long strokes effortless.

"They ride thermals," Joon-woo says, gaze following the birds. "Don't flap much—just find the column of warm air and hold it."

"Lift, not race," I echo, tasting the words. My upward-palm gesture feels less theoretical now.

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small object: the tamper he's been sanding for days, walnut handle polished satin-smooth, the steel base etched with three tiny concentric rings. "Steady lift," he says, almost a question.

My fingers close around the cool metal. "Perfect counterweight," I answer, and we share the kind of smile that doesn't need extra sentences.

Below, the café door bangs—Kang's muffled voice ordering breakfast prep. Time to move, but the panic edge is gone; the clock is simply wind I can learn to ride.

By 06:10 I'm back at the bar, editing the day's drill schedule: twenty-minute speed sets, five-minute clean-downs, ten-second breath resets with the new lift cue. Ha-eun approves, humming the mask-dance tune from our myth wheel as metronome.

A notification slices across the screen.

PARK SEONG-IL: Your official exam slot is confirmed—09:00 tomorrow. See attached briefing.

Immediately after, another banner.

EOM JI-SUN: Auditors need your digital banking passwords today.

Twin messages, two predators circling. My heart jumps, but then I picture the crane shadow, the wide arc of dawn over water. Two taps, upward palm.

First take the thermal, Ha-eun reminds me.

Tomorrow's exam at nine: singular, defined. Bank passwords: another gust I will meet with counsel—but not before I secure the air beneath my wings.

I open a blank page, title it Flight Plan, and begin to write.

Chapter 18: Spark-Valve Salute

The work-shop still smells of cedar varnish and sleepless resolve when Joon-woo rolls back the corrugated door. Under the bare bulb his eyes are red-rimmed, but the grin behind his dust mask is unmistakable.

He sets a palm-length cylinder on the bench. Brushed stainless, ridged cap, two valves the size of watch crowns.

"I present," he says, voice rasping from sawdust, "Lift-Jet One."

A single twist of the knurled knob and a blue flame leaps up—clean, steady, the color of sharpened dawn. The valve's click echoes through the planks like a starting pistol.

Hiss, breathe, glide, Ha-eun murmurs inside my head, pacing the flare with a metronome whisper of airflow. I match the rhythm, feel heat bloom along my cheekbones, and let the mantra settle over yesterday's failure.

The tables have been shoved to the walls; masking tape grids the floor into exam stations. Min-ji bounces at the counter, phone clamped in a timer-app cradle. The screen reads 15:00 in neon numbers that pulse with a cartoon heart.

"Version two of the hype board," she chirps, slapping a sticker of a pressure gauge beside the digits. "This time, we're supportive, not sadistic."

I anchor Lift-Jet One to the pop-up cart, slot the portafilter, and inhale the faint perfume of denatured alcohol. Beneath it, cedar and burnt sugar linger from yesterday's lantern test. Joon-woo adjusts the burner's feet, checking level with a carpenter's bubble. When he nods once—silent salute—I lift the pitcher.

"Ready?" Min-ji calls.

I flatten my hands on the cart's rim, feel my pulse in each fingertip. Two taps to my sternum, then the new upward swipe of my right palm—the lift signal. The timer begins.

00:14 – Grind: Burrs hum; the shot streams at 27 seconds, rich and tiger-striped.

Good altitude, Ha-eun intones. Hold the thermal.

01:32 – Milk: Steam wand growls; thermometer settles on 60 °C precisely. The burner's flame thrums a stable note, high A on an unseen tuning fork. My shoulders loosen.

04:50 – Signature syrup: Honey twists into espresso like gold ribbon. The timer hearts flash encouragement.

07:13 – Latte art: A swan, fluent and unhurried, unfurls across microfoam. I don't chase the clock—I ride its thermals.

Ten minutes in, victory tastes like orange-peel crema—until the burner coughs.

A hiccup of fuel and the flame gutters to a pale feather. Heat drops; steam hisses thin.

For half a breath panic nips my ankles, then the mantra clicks in. Two taps. Up-lift palm. I crack the auxiliary valve—click-whump—and blue returns, taller than before. Twelve seconds sacrificed, but the cart is airborne again.

Min-ji's eyes are saucers. She mimes flapping wings behind the timer. I hide a grin.

Portafilter flushed, countertop wiped, tools aligned edge-to-edge. I slap the tamper down like a final punctuation mark.

14:52. Eight seconds left in the bank.

The timer erupts in pixel fireworks. Min-ji whoops; Joon-woo lifts Lift-Jet One overhead as though it were an Olympic torch. The vivid blue tongue sizzles against the ceiling's shadow.

"Spark-valve salute!" Min-ji declares, snapping a photo.

I'm still catching my breath when Madam Kang strides in, phone on speaker. "…yes, Mr. Shin, we have a certified alcohol burner, specs incoming." She eyes the flame, then presses a round green sticker that reads SAFETY CLEARED onto the cylinder. To me she mouths, Good.

On the speaker an insurance rep mutters about liability riders. Ha-eun lets out a soft, pleased hum—threads converging, keep them balanced—and the call ends without incident.

Twilight drapes the river in sultry violets. We carry Lift-Jet One upstairs like a lantern. Joon-woo sets it on the parapet; its flame draws a razor line between cooling sky and warming hearth. He hands me a slim brass ring—finely sanded, inner edge etched in tiny concentric grooves.

"Spare tamper collar," he says. "For steady lift."

Metal warm from his pocket slides onto my finger, catches the flame, tosses sparks of gold onto bare concrete. My chest feels similarly lit.

Lift, not race, Ha-eun echoes, and for once the words feel less like instruction, more like prophecy.

Inside, the phone vibrates: two notifications side by side.

— Exam Board: See you 09:00 sharp. Don't forget ID.

— Auditor Portal: Credentials received. Preliminary review begins.

Twin clocks, but I'm no longer their prey. I open the email draft addressed to the auditors, attach the requested spreadsheets, and press send while the burner's flame still ascends beside me—calm, controlled, undeniably alive.

Tomorrow we fly.

The burner hisses out; darkness settles, but the brass ring holds a silent ember against my skin. I pocket it, descend toward the cart, and whisper to the empty café, "Fifteen minutes, no fear." The echo carries me into the final night of practice—and straight into the next Chapter examination dawn.

Chapter 19: Mischief Under Moon

Moonlight lies across the attic like spilled milk, white and thin, when I glance up from the flash-cards.

Extraction yield: 28 seconds. Brew ratio: two-to-one. Milk stretch: 55 to 65 °C.

I murmur the numbers, but they slide off my tongue as if the figures have turned to glass. The heater ticks; another minute dies. Somewhere below, the river's current sighs against its banks.

Lift, not race, Ha-eun reminds me, voice no louder than the filament glow of the desk lamp.

"I'm lifting," I answer, though the cards quiver in my fingers. One more run-through before bed, I promised Kang—and myself—but the digits blur. The barista exam is nine hours away; the auditors' deadline lurks a week behind it, teeth bared. My lids threaten to weld shut.

The attic door creaks. I don't look up—probably the heater settling—until a shhk of paper whispers across the floorboards. I blink. My colour-coded stack is gone; the corkboard on the wall now blazes neon green, mango orange, lilac violet—cards pinned in new order.

From behind a tower of storage boxes pops Min-ji's grin, cheeks shiny with energy-drink glaze. "Evenin', Professor! Borrowed your notes for… remixing purposes." She raises her phone, index finger over lips. "Livestream's on mute—for now."

Before I can protest, a bassy pwff-t-t-t rattles the tiny speaker. Min-ji beat-boxes, shoulders jerking, eyes alight. Into the rhythm she chants:

"Fifty-five to sixty-five—keep the milk alive!

Two to one is crema fun—let the flavours dive!"

My jaw drops; exhaustion cracks, leaking laughter. "You're weaponising my flash-cards?"

"Mnemonic warfare, baby," she replies, pivoting on socked heels. "Café fans demanded a midnight drop."

Catch the current, Ha-eun urges, her tone dancing on the downbeats. Numbers ride rhythm.

I stand, heart thrumming to Min-ji's improvised snare. She swivels, pointing at the lilac cards. "Acidity chart, give it a part!"

I clear my throat—why not?

"Citrus zip at nine-point-five— keeps espresso live!

Stone fruit mid, cocoa low— map the flavour drive!"

We cackle. My tongue remembers what my eyes, moments ago, refused to see.

A soft metallic clink joins the rhythm: Joon-woo, framed in the stairwell, toolbox in hand. He doesn't speak, simply lifts a small wrench and taps handle against palm—tink, tink-tink, a gentle hi-hat. The groove thickens.

Min-ji nods him in. "Percussion boy, let's deploy!"

He steps beside me, shy, shoulders dusted with sawdust from booth frames. The three of us form a crooked triangle of music and paper light.

"Next verse," Min-ji orders, phone now off mute. A dozen sleepy viewers throw heart emojis that float up the cracked screen.

Ha-eun hums a low bass run only I can hear: hum-hum glide… hum-hum glide… I follow, voice steady:

"Steam wand hiss, give it kiss— sixty, sixty-five!

Purge and wipe, don't slip-slide— keep the judges alive!"

Min-ji adds a call-and-response: "Keep the judges alive!"

Joon-woo syncopates his wrench taps—tink-tink-tink … TINK!—on the final beat. The attic's thin rafters tremble with laughter.

I glance at the corkboard. The cards aren't random; they spiral out from the center like a paper mandala, colours mirroring my study wheel, each quadrant a station in tomorrow's exam. Min-ji's mischief has mapped the entire syllabus into song.

She turned the circle of light into sound, Ha-eun whispers, delighted.

"Do you realise," I pant between verses, "you just saved my tired brain?"

"Redemption arc complete," Min-ji declares, wiping imaginary sweat. She stops the stream, saves the video with the title "CRAM-JAM: Barista Bars for Lift!"

A vibration buzzes under a paint-stained towel—Joon-woo's phone perhaps. No, mine. Security-cam alert from the downstairs motion sensor; seconds later Kang sends a single emoji: 🙊

We freeze like guilty children. Then all three of us stifle giggles behind palms.

"Quiet chorus?" Min-ji suggests.

I nod. "One more run, whisper-mode."

We gather in a tight circle, Joon-woo providing soft metallic ticks, Min-ji beat-boxing under her breath, me reciting:

"Grind fine, 18 grams—balance in my hands.

Bloom slow, thirty sec—let aromas land.

Milk ride, whirlpool wide—silk not foam turban.

Clean sweep, fifteen flat—badge me S C A urban!"

The final line puffs out as a hiss of relief. The heater ticks once, as if applauding.

Min-ji shoots off an e-mail: mp3 attached, subject "Cram-Jam – Listen & Lift." Then she bows theatrically and slips downstairs, socked feet silent on the worn treads.

Joon-woo lingers. He sets his wrench on my desk, meets my gaze beneath the lamplight. "Sounded… good."

My cheeks warm. "So did your percussion."

He nods once, reaches out, and with thumb gently flicks a stray neon post-it that clings to my hair. It flutters down, landing face-up: 55–65 °C. He gives a tiny salute—spark-valve style—and retreats to the stairwell.

Door clicks. Night hush returns.

I set a double alarm—05 : 30 for warm-up, 06 : 00 for departure. Under blankets, eyes flutter—but mind hums the rap's meter. Ratio two-to-one, lift and done. The words loop like a cradle swing.

You will rise in tempo, not terror, Ha-eun promises. Her voice, softer than the moon's spill on the floor, melds with the final heater ping.

Sleep folds over me like a perfectly steamed blanket—light, glossy, warm. Outside the attic window, a sliver of moon tilts, silver and sure, as though giving one last approving nod to mischief that became memory.

Tomorrow, the real timing begins. Tonight, the rap keeps watch, whispering the rhythm of lift until dawn.

Chapter 20: Countdown: Ten Days

The café deck is still humming with midday traffic when we slip back through the service door, but the sounds pass over me like breeze above deep water. My muscles remember the exam's frantic choreography, yet my brain floats somewhere distant—half-smile fixed, fingers tingling, lungs emptied of adrenaline.

Min-ji thrusts her phone at me. "Quick victory clip!"

I manage a wobbly peace sign; the lens catches stray wisps of milk foam still clinging to my sleeve. She records eight seconds, no more, then pockets the phone with a wink. "Feed wants suspense, not spoilers."

Lift, I remind myself, but the word finds only hollow space. I drift upstairs on autopilot.

The heater's cedar-sweet breath greets me. I fall onto the floor cushions, arms flung wide, staring at bare rafters that suddenly feel miles high. The exam is over; nothing is scheduled for the next minute, or the one after. The emptiness teeters toward vertigo.

Clock is still a circle—draw it, Ha-eun whispers, voice soft as paper sliding from a shelf.

A circle. Right. I sit up, reach for the roll of butcher paper we keep for menu sketches, and tug it across the floorboards. The tamper ring Joon-woo polished for me yesterday makes a perfect stencil; I trace a broad wheel, then quarter it, then slice each quarter into two neat wedges: ten spokes.

Colors next. Terra-cotta for Exam, deep teal for Insurer, camellia red for Audit. My markers sigh across the paper, leaving glossy bands that already feel steadier than the blank ceiling.

A quiet knock; the attic ladder creaks. Joon-woo climbs up carrying a tiny brass hook and a screwdriver. He says nothing, just raises an eyebrow in polite question. I nod. While I letter the wheel's centre—Exam Complete ✓—he fixes the hook above the heater, braces it with two precise turns, tests the strength, and disappears again like a helpful ghost.

Min-ji bursts in next, chalk dust on her cheeks. "Deck board is my easel today!" She riffles through spare swan-shaped sticky notes, peels one off, and scribbles a smug little bird wearing sunglasses. We pin it to the top spoke and chalk 10 beside it. Day ten of… everything.

I feel the wheel settle on the hook, a compass finally finding north.

My phone trills—Mr Oh (Finance Auditor).

Please supply itemised vendor expenditures dated Day − 7 for preliminary review.

A flicker of old panic claws at my ribs, but Ha-eun hums the cram-jam bass line. I draw a small red exclamation mark in the audit ring—just big enough to respect, not big enough to drown me. Breath steady. Two taps to sternum, one upward palm: lift.

Min-ji steps back and frames the view with her fingers. "Looks like a festival drum."

"That's the point," I say, surprising myself with the calm in my voice. "We'll strike one spoke every dawn."

She grins. "Content unlocked."

Together we spin the wheel a quarter turn. Paper rustles, colours blur, then stop with the teal insurer band gleaming at one-o'clock. The circle feels less like a noose, more like a gear we chose to set in motion.

Another buzz—email forwarded from Kang.

★ SCA Exam Entry Confirmed ★ – Results released in 10 business days.

I print the message, trim the margins, and slide it under the brass hook so the bold 10 overlaps Min-ji's chalk number. Ten days. Ten spokes. Ten chances to keep lifting.

Outside, afternoon light arcs through the skylight, brushing the wheel with gold, and I swear it almost turns on its own—already pointing me forward.